Black
by sherlockian4evr
Summary: Sherlock is in a black mood that threatens to annihilate him. John is there for him.


Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, arms resting limply at his sides. John had tried to talk to him several times in the early hours of the day, but Sherlock had remained stubbornly quiet. Not talking was a safety mechanism of sorts. It kept Sherlock from saying anything that he would later regret.

The thing was, when Sherlock was in one of his black moods as he was now, he tended to get quite vicious. Considering the cutting remarks that Sherlock doled out almost daily, that was saying a lot. If he slipped and said something horrendous to John, Sherlock would descend even deeper into dark depression, berating himself for his own callousness and stupidity. He would get angry at John as well, because John would defend himself - of course he would - then Sherlock would attack himself for having the temerity to get angry with John. Irrationally, Sherlock would lash out with even more hateful words to try to drive John away. All in all, it was a vicious cycle best avoided, hence Sherlock's silence.

Unfortunately, not speaking (or experimenting, reading, researching or case-chasing) left Sherlock with ample time alone with his thoughts. In such cases, they invariably turned to thoughts of a seven percent solution. It wasn't surprising, really, because Sherlock's black moods were accompanied by achy joints and a feeling of nausea. Sherlock would even swear that his teeth itched. He hated every second of existence when he felt like that. Sherlock hated his racing heart, sweating and shortness of breath. Realising that John would recognise these symptoms, Sherlock rolled onto his side, facing away from the room. He daren't leave the refuge of the sofa for fear that he would go out and find the substance that he craved so much.

 _Weak_ , came the self-accusatory thought. It was followed by _I_ am _a freak. I should stay here forever. Never move again. Mycroft could have me sectioned. The world would be a better place. I would never hurt anyone again. I would never have to make another decision. Sally would be pleased, as well as Anderson._ A sob spilled out of Sherlock.

Tears were threatening, so he buried his face in the Union Jack pillow. Sherlock yelled, "Make it stop!" He dug his fingers into his arms until they hurt. His nails drew blood where they bit into flesh.

John heard Sherlock's cry all the way in their bedroom. He had been worried about Sherlock for a few days, but had tried to give him space. Sherlock had seemed to want to be left alone. That despairing shout, however, had cut to John's very heart. He ran through the hall and into the living room to find Sherlock shuddering and weeping on the sofa. Sherlock had curled himself into a tight ball and looked so very, very helpless.

Sherlock felt a tap on his shoulder and plaintively ordered, "Go away. Leave me alone, John." _Pathetic. John is seeing how worthless I am. Please, go away._

"I'm not leaving. Budge up." John waited.

Sherlock reluctantly made room for John to sit. When he felt John's weight drop down onto the sofa, Sherlock shifted to put his head in John's lap. He wailed like a wounded animal.

"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere," John reassured him. "Get it out. Cry all you want, I'll never tell anyone." Tears flowed and John's trousers grew damp and then wet. John threaded his fingers into Sherlock's hair and stroked and stroked and stroked. John would sit there stroking Sherlock's curls as long as he was needed.

Eventually Sherlock's sobs quieted and his body went slack. Brokenly, Sherlock asked, "Why? I don't understand why you do this for me. I'm a freak. Everyone knows it but you. You shouldn't stay."

John sighed a sad sigh. He wanted to cry himself, but Sherlock didn't need that. "Your not a freak, Love. You're the most wonderful, amazing, sensitive and caring man I've ever known and I love you more than life itself."

Sherlock whined.

"I know you don't believe any of that right now, but it's true. That's why I'm here, Love. That's why I'll never leave." John wiped away moisture from his own eyes with his free hand. "I shouldn't have let you try to deal with this on your own and I'm not going to anymore. You won't see a psychiatrist, I know that, but I need you to agree to take the escitalopram that I prescribed for you. Will you do that for me?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment then gave a small nod. He could hear the pain in John's voice and didn't like it. Sherlock would do anything to make it go away.

"Good. Let me up and I'll get it." John waited patiently. Finally Sherlock shifted and John could stand. He fetched the bottle of pills from their bedroom and returned with it along with a glass of water. Handing Sherlock the glass, John tipped out a single pill into his hand. It was a low initial dose, but could be increased later if it was required. Sherlock took the pill and downed it. He started to set down the glass. "Drink all the water, Sherlock." Sherlock made a face, but did as instructed. John resumed his place on the sofa and Sherlock curled around him, burying his face in John's jumper. "You know a pill won't fix everything, but it's a start. We'll weather out the next few days then we're going to have to talk. There are things you can do that will help, but you'll have to give them a chance."

"I'll will, for you," Sherlock muttered.

"No, Love. You have to do it for yourself or it won't work." John hugged Sherlock tightly. "Forget about it for now. Just let me hold you and take care of you, yeah? And remember, nothing is hurting you at this moment. You're okay."

The raging depression was still there, but Sherlock stopped listening to its vicious voice. He concentrated on matching his breathing to John's instead. John was correct, Sherlock realised. Nothing was hurting him right now. He was safe in John's arms. Sherlock grabbed onto that knowledge and didn't let go.


End file.
